The Beginning of the End
by June Goddess
Summary: This rating may not be necessary, but I'm taking care of any eventualities right now. I have a vision of where I want this story to go, and it might just end up as rated 'R'. This is set on Antar, and is about how and why the war started. R&R. Thank you!


Hi! I'm June Goddess. This is my first Roswell fanfiction. I've always wondered what happened on Antar, but the show never tells us much. So, I've decided to give a version of what could have been. Please read and review. If anyone has read any of my other stories, please go to my author page. I have a note for you there. All standard disclaimers are applicable. Thank you! Happy reading!

**The Beginning of the End**

**_The Story of Rath and Vilandra_**

****

By: June Goddess

Prologue

Confusion, chaos, destruction. Pain, blood, death. Madness.

These words describe the fall of the Antarian Empire at the hands of the rebel Lord Khivar. He stands on the topmost tower of the Royal Palace gazing down in victory over the city that now belongs to him. His bright blue eyes reflect the red and yellow flames spreading to incase those who were dead and those who would stand against him. A booming sound fills his ears through the din of screams and cries. He tensely searches the ground below him, and his eyes alight upon the fallen monument of King Zan. Mad laughter bubbles within his breast and threatens to burst from him.

The clicking of soldiers' boots alerts him to another's presence. He spins swiftly and has his gleaming silver saber at the ready. He does not relax upon seeing the commander of his forces, as well as a lieutenant-guard, standing before him. They kneel in subservience, and he motions them to rise. He focuses his attention on his commander.

"What are you doing here?" he snaps. He frowns down his nose at the man who is taller than him by at least a hand span and feels pride wash over and through him at the thought that the commander, the former confidant of the great King Zan, stood lower than he, militarily and socially.

The commander, Larek of Simaloan, an attractive man with pale green eyes, sandy brown hair, and a winning smile, inclines his head in apology, though his expressive eyes show a distant loathing, rather than remorse. A short, quick gesture to his lieutenant-guard signals the younger man to step forward with a cloth-wrapped burden in his arms. "I found this in a secret corridor. I brought it straight to you, my lord, as I thought you might like to gaze upon it."

Khivar raises an inky black eyebrow and turns his gaze to the lieutenant-guard. The lieutenant-guard swallows and moistens his dry, pale lips with the tip of his tongue. "Good day, my lord." He awkwardly and nervously bows before the older man with piercing blue eyes. Upon seeing those eyes harden in irritation, his throat closes up in panic and his soft, nearly feminine, brown eyes fringed with thick, black lashes widen in fear.

Commander Larek intercedes before Khivar becomes too upset with the lieutenant-guard. "If it pleases you, my lord, allow me to lift the cover shielding your present from view." His voice is smooth and level with just the right touch of deference. It is enough to placate the rebel's ego and high-strung emotions.

Khivar's attention swings to the commander, and the lieutenant-guard resumes breathing. "Yes. It would please me if you would, Commander." His words are laced with a reproving note in regards to his choice of companion.

A slight narrowing of Larek's eyes is the only indication of his resentment at his tone. He bows, however, and steps forward to take the cloth away from the lieutenant-guard's burden. As he reveals the face, neck, and shoulders of Vilandra, King Zan's older sister and Princess of Antar, all sound in the room is stilled.

Khivar's breathing halts as he stands arrested, right hand half-raised to touch the bruised cheek of the still beautiful woman. A slight cough from the one holding her disturbs his trance and he quickly comes to attention once more. After a quick perusal of the rest of her body, he turns to face the bleeding city lying in ruins beneath the balcony upon which he stands.

Several moments of silence fill the space between the three men before Larek speaks again. "Forgive me, my lord, but Mal and I must return to searching the rest of the palace. What would you like us to do with the body?" Khivar remains still and silent for so long, Larek is about to repeat his question.

His words are forestalled by the older man speaking at last. "Leave her."

Larek blinks in confusion. "But, my lord, she is dead. Perhaps you would rather we took her to the incinerator, or—"

"Leave her!" The voice is hard and commanding. Unrelenting.

After a beat of charged silence, Larek bows, though he knows Khivar cannot see the motion. "Of course, my lord. As you wish, my lord."

Mal, the lieutenant-guard, carefully lowers the body of the beautiful and beaten princess to the ground. His gaze lingers one last time on the lovely face, before he turns smartly on his heel to lead the Commander out of the gilded tower room.

Commander Larek pauses in the doorway and watches as Khivar turns to the body lying on the ground. He continues to watch as the leader of the rebellion gently picks up Princess Vilandra and cradles her to his chest, and then walks to and places her on the white sofa at the far wall, as yet untouched by the carnage of war. He turns his back as Khivar caresses the face of his dead lover.

****

"Oh, Vilandra. You could have been my queen." His regretful sigh wafts a curling lock of her golden hair.

"But then I would never be free of the monster that destroyed my home." The voice is filled with loathing, and gilded honey-brown eyes alight with a smoldering golden fire are revealed through sun-kissed tipped lashes.

His fingers clench convulsively in her thick, soft hair, and his wide eyes fly to her face. "Vilandra!" he breathes in wonder, half believing she is a delusion brought on by madness. "I thought you dead." He continues to stroke her hair and feasts his eyes on her living, breathing form. The fear of her death had been almost powerful enough to keep him from his purpose, his _coup d'état_. He crushes her to him in a bruising hug and tears sting his eyes.

She stares down at him in full regality, despite lying on a sofa in a bloodied dress and him holding her. For a moment she allows herself to remember a time when that electric blue gaze heated her blood and gave her a sense of security and seclusion from palace life. Then she lets her mind drift to the bodies of everyone she loved: her mother, the former Queen of Antar; her younger brother Zan, the beloved King of Antar; her brother's wife Ava, Queen Consort of Antar; and Rath, General of the King's Antarian Force – her husband.

Sorrow and shame become a swiftly moving undertow seeking to pull her below the surface and give her the death she deserves. The death she desires. As she lies unmoving on the sofa, she wonders how life brought her to this moment. But she knows. She remembers…


End file.
